


You Look Better Broken

by gaialux



Category: Fight Club (1999)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bruises, Community: kink_bingo, Dirty Talk, Injury, M/M, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fine line between fighting and fucking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Look Better Broken

**Author's Note:**

> It's movie!verse in book!verse style (hmm, yes...). Written for the DW kinkbingo postage stamp of "body alteration/injury", "rough body play", "bites/bruises", and "dirty talk". It's pretty messed.
> 
> Fight Club does not belong to me. This piece of fiction was written for entertainment purposes only, no profit is gained.

You join fight club because you want a chance to prove yourself.

To prove you're the strongest, the biggest, the one with the longest endurance. If you can throw the hardest punch, you've proven yourself in a way nowhere else in the world will let you. If you draw blood you watch it, transfixed almost, because it starts meaning a hell of a lot more to you now than it ever did when you got a papercut or split your lip from not enough chapstick.

Tyler gets that.

Tyler understands me in a way the rest of the world never cares enough to. He tells me the world doesn't give a shit about your problems, that it's all make-believe, pretend-play, to make them think  _you_ give a shit about  _them_ when they stand at the ledge and think about flying. Tyler calls jumpers pussys. I tell him Project Mayhem is like suicide. He says it's more like murder-suicide, which vetoes the second point.

We only start fucking when we start fighting. At home while he waits for Marla and I try not to let that get under my skin. "We need to stay at the top," he says, which translates to him needing to be number one and me being the butt-monkey in all of this. But I do what he says, because it's Tyler and he saved me.

He throws the first punch, busting my lip and I can taste blood. My reflexes are better now, better than the gangly kid I once was. I can hit Tyler before he ducks, I can slam my fist into his cheek and know he'll be all bruised up tomorrow with a shit-eating grin and Marla trailing along behind him.

He stumbles back half a step before he's on me again, this time with less fists and more gripping, his hands clenching onto my arms as he throws me on the bed, dust flying because neither of us give a shit about cleaning and the mattress is already moth-eaten and worn. His knee digs into my leg until I'm sure something snaps, but I grit my teeth and refuse to break eye contact.

Another rule of fight club: Never let them see what they've done.

"What if I snap your leg?" Tyler asks me, like he's contemplating it the way you'd contemplate whether to watch  _Halloween_ or  _Friday the 13th_ that night.

"Then you snap my leg," I tell him.

"Or your arm."

He runs his hand over my arm, stopping at the elbow which he grips, hard, squeezing with enough strength I'm pretty sure he's gonna make good on the threat. I can feel the joint grind, but he lets go.

"Should keep you busted permanantely," he says, "You look good like that."

That makes something twist in my gut and I swallow once, twice. I see Tyler watching my neck and he leans down, teeth grazing over the Adam's Apple. He might bring blood, it stings, but when Tyler looks up you can't tell if it's the blood from my lip or my neck that covers his lips. When he kisses me, it's just as hard to tell. All blood tastes the same. That's another thing you learn in Fight Club.

"How much could I punch you?" he asks, "Until I broke you for good?"

I try and shrug, but his weight's too heavy on me. "Could try it out," I say, "See what happens."

"I might kill me," he says.

I say, "I won't fight back." 

"Could kill you," he says.

I say, "You'd know when to stop."

He looks like he's contemplating, but it's hard to tell with Tyler. He comes in two flavours: angry and amused. During sex he's not either, or maybe he's a mix. He looks at me too much, makes it hard to really let go, but he also knows all the buttons. Can press them in a perfect row, take the elevator from floor 12 to the basement room by room.

He punches he so fast I can't see it coming, but I do see stars and I can hear Tyler laughing. "C'mon, let's get this over with."

Tyler doesn't actually fuck. Not me, anyway. He just grips our cocks together and sometimes pulls so hard it hurts, but he tells me all pain is preparation for the  _end game_. What the end game is, I don't know. I don't ask. Something tells me I don't want to know, and Tyler would tell me if I needed to.

I only know what Tyler lets me know.


End file.
